


Dirac Notation

by sksdwrld



Series: Planck Constant [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Master/Slave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksdwrld/pseuds/sksdwrld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirac Notation: A standard notation for describing quantum states composed of angle brackets and vertical bars; most every phenomenon in quantum mechanics is described using this notation. Part of the appeal is the abstract-independence it encodes without excessive reliance on the nature of the linear spaces involved.</p><p>OR</p><p>Two steps forward and one step back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirac Notation

**Author's Note:**

> I have all the love for Bekah! Thank you for all your support and for loving these two, perhaps even more than I do.

Joe pushed himself up the stairs and let himself into the apartment above his shop. It had already been a long week and it was only Wednesday afternoon. Just inside the door was a deacon's bench that before Micah's arrival, had housed a various number of tools and projects on top of the lid, and only god knows what chaos inside the storage compartment. 

Now, it was cleared of detritus, much like the majority of the apartment and Joe could actually sit down to remove or don his boots, serving the purpose of the bench that had originally been intended. However, Joe didn't have time to take off his shoes. He didn't have time for any of it. The client was returning in an hour for his bike and Joe couldn't find one of the specialty tools that he needed to put the fiberglass body back on the frame. 

He wrenched up the lid of the bench and glanced helplessly into it. Were it the mess he was accustomed to, he would have unabashedly pawed through it to look for the wrench but the neat stacks and piles made him flustered. He didn't have the patience to go through this now and he'd already wasted enough time looking for it down in the shop. Sometimes, a man just wanted to find things where he left them. 

"God damn it," He swore, straightening and running a hand through his hair. Micah was nowhere to be seen, and if he had gone somewhere, Joe was really going to lose it. He scanned the living room and kitchen quickly and then stepped into the hallway, barking, "Micah!" 

A moment later, Micah poked his head around the bedroom door, frowned, and moved into the hallway. He had one of Joe's shirts in his hand. "What are you doing in there?" Joe demanded. 

"Laundry..." Micah's eyes flickered over Joe and widened slightly. "Is there something wrong, Sir?" 

"Yeah, there's something wrong. I can't find my Toltec-wrench!" Joe snapped. At the blank look on Micah's face, the vein in Joe's left temple started pulsing. He repeated himself, "The Toltec-wrench, Micah. I need it, like yesterday." 

Micah's puzzled look deepened and he twisted the shirt in his hands. "But I..." 

Joe struck the palm of his hand against the wall in frustration. "Damn it, Micah!" 

The t-shirt fell to the floor as Micah first shrank away from him and then went to his knees, bowing his head. 

Joe grit his teeth together and reached out, grabbing one of Micah's arms and hauling him to his feet. "I don't have time for this, Micah. Find it, now!" 

"Yes Sir. Sorry Sir. Right away, Sir," Micah murmured, slipping into the living room with less grace than usual. He passed his hand over his head and turned, worrying his lips in his teeth. His gaze was slanted to the far left and he looked as though he wanted to go to his knees again but was only just keeping himself upright. "Forgive me, Sir, but I..." 

"What is it?" Joe scowled.

 

Micah flinched and closed his eyes. "Please...I don't know what a Toltec-wrench is. But if you described it to me, I'm sure I could..."

 

Of course Micah had no idea. Because that would be too damn easy. Joe wiped his face and sighed, staring up at the ceiling as he collected his patience. Then he looked at Micah, holding his index fingers nine inches apart. "Handle 'bout this long, stainless steel, grooves on the grip. Head maybe this big," he brought his forefinger and thumb loosely together, the size of a silver dollar.

 

Micah promptly turned and went to the deacons bench, his knees colliding with the floor as he dropped down and lifted the lid. He lifted out a number of items and set them aside then pulled out something roughly of the appropriate size, wrapped in a red, oil-stained rag.

 

Joe reached over Micah's shoulder and snatched it away from him, tearing the wrapping away. He glanced at the wrench head and rolled his eyes. "This is a Halex. I need the <i>Toltec</i>."

 

Micah ducked his head and delved back inside the compartment, coming up with three more similarly wrapped items, which he offered up wordlessly. Joe dropped the Halex wrench and grabbed them, dropping the first two in turn. "Soltec. Andromeda. Here it is. Fucking Christ."

 

He stepped over the pile of tools on the floor and yanked the door open, pausing on his way through it. Micah was already rewrapping the wrenches in the rags and the thought of going through this again made Joe prickle with anger. He stepped back in and tugged the tools from Micah so that he could bring them back down to the shop. "Stop touching my shit." Slamming the door behind him, Joe ran down the stairs and into his shop. He only had forty minutes to put the body back on and clean it off before the customer returned. This was going to be cutting it close.

 

As he worked, Joe's anger ebbed away and he flooded with relief when, with minutes to go, the project was completed. He was polishing the red fiberglass to a high gloss when the door jangled. Glancing up, Joe passed the man a smile. "Just finishing up. How's she look?"

 

The customer grunted as Joe stood and retrieved the credit scanner from one of the counters. "Don't care much how she looks, just need her to run."

 

"Key's in it. Fire 'er up." Joe said, referencing his log book and punching the guy's information into the scanner. Joe waited while he got the bike humming and barely suppressed a wince when the customer cranked the handle, the sound of the revving engine reverberating around the small shop. Then, he offered the scanner out to him.

 

The man sighed, frowned and pulled his card from his pocket passing it in front of the laser before signing the pad. Joe confirmed the transaction had gone through and then lifted the overhead door of the bay, letting him out.

 

He began to clean up the shop, starting by shaking some sawdust over the shop floor to absorb any pools of fluid. While it soaked, he straightened up the counters and put his tools away.

 

Joe sighed when he picked up the three wrenches, loosely wrapped in the stained rags. They were dinged and nicked from Joe's casual handling, though it was clear that Micah had treated them with much more reverence. As he placed them back in their rightful places on the corkboard, he paused to wonder how they had made it upstairs in the first place. Though he couldn't remember bringing them there, it was no great mystery. He often stuck tools in  one pocket or another only to unload them when he sat down for the day. It was just as likely that he had carted them up in his distraction and left them in a heap.

 

Joe reached for the broom and began to sweep the floor, corralling the sawdust into haphazard piles. But his mind was still on Micah and the way his eyes had looked as he grabbed the wrenches away. It was just as much Joe's fault that he couldn't find what he'd been looking for and none of Micah's fault that Joe had been running behind. Dumping the last of the sawdust in the old barrel that he used for a waste bin, Joe gave it a half-hearted kick and swore.

 

Joe casually rinsed his hands in the sink and was already drying them on the thighs of his jeans when he forced himself to go back and do a more thorough job of it, having decided the last thing he needed right now was to see the thin line of Micah's lips at the dinner table.

 

The sun was setting as Joe made his way upstairs for the second time that afternoon. He pushed open the door and was immediately confused by the darkened interior. Micah had been with him for nearly four months and in that time, Joe had always come home to a warm, bright apartment and the smell of dinner in the air. He took two steps into the living room and nearly tripped over something.

 

Joe had already released a string of explicatives before realizing 'thatsomething' was Micah, on his knees with his forehead on the floor. Joe reached over and flicked on the light. If Micah had moved, it was not very far from the place he'd been when Joe left, going on two hours ago.

 

"Jesus Christ, Micah! Are you alright? What the hell are you doing on the floor?"

 

"Waiting for you, Master." Micah said dully.

 

Joe's eyebrows knotted together and he snorted. "<I>Master</I>? ...Oh, I get it. You're mad at me, huh?"

 

"No, Sir. Slaves don't have the right to be angry." Micah replied in his even-keeled manner.

 

"Bullshit." Joe felt his ire begin to rise again and swallowing it back,  he crouched beside Micah, tapping the bony knob of Micah's left shoulder. "C'mon, sit up and look at me."

 

Micah slowly straightened his torso and lifted his chin, glancing quickly at Joe and then away.

 

Joe blew out a long breath and shoveled his hand through his hair. "I thought we were past this. You know I don't like it when you act like a piece of furniture. What's wrong?"

 

"Nothing is wrong, Sir."

 

"Micah...have you even moved since I left this afternoon?"

 

"Of course I have, Sir." Micah swallowed. It was his little tell, that he was holding something back, and Joe was not going to let it go this time.

 

"I'm not playing your fucking semantics word game today, Micah. Have you moved from this spot since this afternoon?"

 

Micah's eyelashes fluttered down and his entire body seemed to shrink smaller. His voice was a whisper as he replied, "No, Sir."

 

Joe stood and walked across the living room floor, turning at the edge of the hallway and pacing back. "So, you've been laying on the floor for almost two hours...in the dark, you probably left clothes all over the bed, you didn't make dinner, and you want me to believe that nothing is wrong?"

 

Micah began to tremble and his body bowed forward again.

 

"Are you sick?" Joe asked, crossing to Micah and bending over him,  wondering if he'd missed some vital clue. But as he pulled Micah to his feet, Micah declined and flinched, going rigid in Joe's arms as though he were bracing himself to be struck. "Oh Jesus."

 

Micah was afraid of him.

 

"Why, Micah?" Joe whined in frustration even though he already knew the answer. Now he really wanted to kick himself. But it seemed that Micah misunderstood his rhetorical question.

 

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry!" Micah's eyelashes fluttered again, dampening and separating into spiked clusters  as Joe looked on. "You told me not to touch your...your things."

 

"What?"

 

"You <I>said</I>, Don't touch my...and it's all yours. Everything is yours. Master, please, I didn't touch anything!"

 

Joe stared helplessly at Micah for a moment and then tugged him to his chest. Micah's face fitted into his neck, though his arms hung helplessly at his sides. "My tools, Micah. I meant my tools."

 

"You said..." This rebuttal was as close as Micah had ever come to arguing with Joe and he seemed to know it too because he bit off the statement and tried to redirect himself. "A good slave listens to his Master and I am a good slave, Joe, please! I'm a good slave..."

 

Micah's pleas for reassurance punched Joe directly in the solar plexus and he felt like he couldn't breathe. He clutched Micah more tightly to him and kissed his temple. "Yeah you are, sweetheart, and I'm an asshole."

 

A distressed sound escaped Micah and he burrowed deeper, digging his chin into Joe's collar bone.  Moving them both toward the couch, Joe himself down and dragged Micah into his lap. Then he took Micah's chin in his hands, forcing them eye to eye. "I am sorry for the way that I treated you today, Micah. I was angry, but not with you..."

 

Micah's eyes darted to the side. "You don't-"

 

"I don't what?" Joe interrupted. "Owe you anything? Have to make excuses for my behavior? I'll tell you what I really don't have to do, and that's treat you like shit for being the most wonderfully infuriating human being on the planet. Now shut up and let me apologize."

 

Micah's mouth opened and closed and his eyes slowly met back with Joe's. They were wide and wet, and troubled.

 

"I am sorry for yelling at you. I am sorry that I have caused this upset. Every day I am thankful for the ways you have made my life easier...and not only easier, but better." Joe thumbed Micah's cheekbones before pressing a kiss to his downturned mouth. "You are a gift and I'm a dick for abusing you. I'm sorry."

 

Micah made a hiccoughing sound that seemed to be the result of simultaneously laughing and bursting into tears. Before Joe cough do anything, Micah surged forward, throwing his arms around Joe's neck and kissing him again. Overcome with surprise, Joe's hands hovered in the air for a moment before dropping to Micah's shoulders and sliding down to his waist.

 

After a minute, Micah pulled back and bit his lip. "Sorry, I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry..."

 

"I'm not," Joe said, rubbing his thumb over Micah's lower lip. But Micah flushed and ducked his head, his shoulders drawing up in a show of self consciousness. Joe frowned and let Micah slip away from him, watching as he wandered toward the kitchen and then return, looking unsure and aimless. Joe knew that feeling and he knew how to fix it. He stood up. "C'mon, grab your coat and helmet."

 

Micah's eyes widened. "Where are we going, Sir?"

 

"Dunno," Joe pulled his own jacket off the peg on the wall and shrugged into it. "Guess we'll find out when we get there."

 

Micah took a step back, a look of anxiety washing over him. "Don't...don't send me away, please Joe, please!"

 

Joe reached Micah before he could crumple to his knees, tugged him back up and kissed his forehead, his left cheek, then his mouth. "Now I know you're fucking crazy. I'm not giving you up for nothing. You're stuck with me, so you better get used to it."

 

"Stuck..." Micah echoed dubiously.

 

"Yep."  Joe kissed Micah again before releasing him. "Now put your coat on. Nothing fixes your problems like a long ride on a warm night."

 

Joe reached past Micah for the helmets, watching as Micah carefully donned his own leather jacket. It was white, designating Micah's status as the law required and Joe hated that. WIhenever they went somewhere, he felt people's eyes on them, judging their interactions, sizing Joe up. It made him uncomfortable, though Micah seemed oblivious. Joe supposed he would be, having lived the entirety of his life under such oppression.

 

Micah offered up a tentative smile and reached for his helmet, cradling it in the crook of his arm while he went out the door and down the stairs. Joe knew that Micah didn't like the feel of the helmet and would wait until the last moment to put it on but for Joe, the weight of it was comforting. He pulled his own on before locking up and wasted no time in climbing onto his motorcycle, a beast of a machine made of metal and chrome that had served him well for years.  

 

While the machine was idling, Micah finished getting ready. He put his hand on Joe's shoulder for balance and hoisted himself into place, gripping the slack of Joe's jacket. Though, all it would take was one deep curve or one hard bump and Micah's arms would be around him, his helmet pressing into the space between Joe's shoulders.

 

Joe pulled out onto street and accelerated. He sped past the first four blocks and at the last minute, took a hard left turn onto the road that led out of the city. Micah lurched forward, clutching at him and Joe couldn't keep the smile from his face.

 

It was an easier ride after that; Joe didn't like to make his baby work too hard and he didn't want to frighten Micah much more. But as they made their way through the suburbs, the houses grew farther and farther apart. Not much longer after that, the road narrowed and began to wind its way up the mountain. Joe leaned first to one side and then the other as he navigated the serpiginous turns. Micah's arms tightened around Joe's waist again, but loosened as they hit another stretch of fairly straight roadways through a sleepy town.

 

They were humming along quite happily and Joe was feeling in tune with both the road and the bike. With the breeze hitting him head on and Micah warming his back, it was nearly a transcendent experience. He barely noticed the tugging at the hem of his jacket, but when wind-chilled fingers pressed against his belly, he could do nothing but.

 

Joe had just made a mental note to get poor Micah some gloves when one of Micah's hands shifted farther up his torso and the other pressed down past his belt. He sucked in a breath and forced himself to keep his attention on the road. By the time he found a suitable place to pull over (a wide shoulder on a side road), Micah's fingers were raking over his abdomen and pressing boldly at the swell of his cock. Joe kicked out the stand and rocked back against Michah, his own cold and slightly numbed fingers scrabbling at his belt and the fastenings of his pants.

 

As Joe tugged his fly open, Micah's hand curled more firmly around him, stroking with purpose. Joe's chuckle turned into a groan that reverberated inside his helmet, and suddenly, he felt hot and confined.  He pulled his helmet off and stuffed it over one of the handlebars, content to let himself be a passive recipient for only a few minutes more. With reluctance, he pried Micah's hands away from him and dismounted the bike only to climb back on facing Micah. He loosened the strap beneath Micah's chin and pulled the helmet off, turning to stick it over the other handle.

 

When Joe turned back, Micah was gazing at him, eyelids heavy and his lips bitten-red. His hands were clenching and unclenching on his thighs as though he were barely keeping his hands to himself. Joe tugged each of Micah's legs over his thighs and pulled them so that Micah slid toward him.

 

"Well, you are certainly a man who knows what he wants..." Joe murmured as his hands cupped Micah's face, tipping it up so that he could kiss his lips. Micah inhaled sharply and Joe let an idle threat hang in the air as he dropped one hand down to tug Micah's fly open. "If you say you're sorry..."

 

"I'm not sorry..." Micah breathed and Joe mashed their mouths together again, the slide of Micah's tongue nearly distracting him from his intentions. But beneath Joe's palm, Micah's prick twitched and Joe freed it from the confines of cloth, slumping closer so that he could wrap his hand around both of them.

 

Micah groaned and Joe sped his hand up in response, only wanting to hear it again and again. Then one of Micah's hands joined him, and together, they stroked and rubbed, thumbs slick and sliding in pre-come. Joe grabbed at Micah and Micah clutched at Joe. Close and needing it harder, Joe rocked his hips, thrusting into Micah's clutch and against his dick. The motorcycle swayed on the stand but Joe didn't have the presence of mind to plant a foot to steady it. Instead, he swore then pleaded  into Micah's mouth, against his throat, sucking on a patch of skin to muffle his needy whimper.

 

Joe clamped his fingers down over Micah's, directing them in short, tight strokes until his orgasm crashed over him. Panting, he slumped against Micah for only a moment, then readjusted his grip and continued to stroke him.

 

One of Micah's hands curled around the nape of Joe's neck and clenched each time Joe's fingers brushed over the head of his cock. "Unh, Joe, please!" he pleaded.

 

"Don't worry Sweetheart, I'll get you there," Joe promised, letting his hand glide faster.

 

Micah moaned softly, clung more tightly to Joe and then stiffened. Warmth pulsed over Joe's fingers and Micah shuddered out a breath. Joe didn't open his eyes until Micah made a sound of dismay, and then could only laugh then he saw the cause of his distress. There was come splattered over both of their laps and some on the sleeve of Joe's jacket.

 

"There's a handkerchief in my right pocket," Joe advised, holding his sticky right hand away from them both. Micah dug it out and cleaned them both up the best he could, then wrapped the kerchief carefully around itself and tucked it into his own pocket before sliding haphazardly off of the bike and staggering  into the grass to stretch his legs. Joe left the bike idling a few minutes longer and followed suit.

 

"I could eat..." Joe prompted lazily as Micah returned to his side by the bike and leaned against him.

 

Micah laughed and rubbed at a wet spot on his own trousers. "You always could, I think. I was going to make chicken and rice for dinner, but it will take awhile. I could make pancakes instead..."

 

"Or we could stop..."Joe handed Micah's helmet to him and watched as predictably, he pulled a face.

 

"As you like, Sir," Micah replied and tugged it on.

 

Joe flipped up Micah's visor and grinned knowingly. "It doesn't have to be The Burger-Shack."

 

"Our clothes are stained," Micah pointed out and tightened his chin strap.

 

"I don't care...” Joe shrugged, reaching out and thumbing the purpling mark on Micah’s neck. It wasn’t as if people wouldn’t be making assumptions of their own anyway, between the hickey and Micah’s white jacket. So, they might as well flaunt the evidence.

 

Micah flushed and pulled his visor down but Joe yanked it back up and dived in, kissing his nose. Then, he snapped Micah’s visor back into place and donned his own helmet before mounting the bike. This time, Micah pressed flush against him before he’d even kicked the stand up and he squeezed Micah’s fingers briefly before cutting a wide U-turn and heading back the way they’d come.

 

When they made it back to the city, Joe cut through the clubbing district to get to one of the many food trucks he’d frequented before Micah had come along. It was early evening and there was only a small crowd, comprised mostly of people Joe’s age and younger, looking to get a quick bite before heading out to party. He left Micah with the motorcycle and when he returned, handed the paper bag with their meals to him.

 

Micah shifted back, making room to place the bag between them. The food was warm against Joe’s back, but not nearly as satisfying as the press of Micah’s body had been. When they made it back, Micah took the helmets and went inside while Joe put his bike in the garage for the night. When Joe made it upstairs, Micah had just unpacked the take-out and was taking plates out of the cabinet.

 

Joe rolled his eyes with a smile as he sat on the bench to unlace his boots. “Half the point of take-away is so that you don’t have to do any dishes. Just bring it out here and sit on the couch. We can be uncouth for an evening and the world won’t end, I promise.”

 

Micah made another face but complied, sitting down and leaning over the Styrofoam containers as though he were confused about the contents. When Joe joined him, he passed over one of the plastic forks with a grin. "What's the matter?"

 

"I am...unfamiliar with this dish." Micah's face was carefully constructed to mask whatever he was really feeling about it.

 

"You, the culinary wonder?" Joe snorted with amusement. "Haven't you ever had Indian?"

 

Micah shook his head. "Willard was partial to French cuisine, though he had a rather...refined palate when it came to certain other dishes."

 

"Did you just insult me?" Joe chuckled and stuck his fork into the admittedly questionable-looking dish that had been nudged closer to him. "It's vegetable curry, Micah. I thought you'd like it."

 

"What's that?" Micah gestured toward the container Joe had gotten for himself. There was grilled, skewered meat wrapped in foil, a round of naan, and a heaping serving of savory rice.

 

"Lamb Kebabs." Joe held the forkful of curry out toward Micah, who actually leaned away from him. It was much more than Micah would have fed himself in one bite so Joe knocked half of it off and offered it out again.

 

Micah swallowed and looked at Joe. "There are probably faster ways to kill me." When Joe did not relent, he leaned forward and hesitantly opened his mouth. Joe smirked to himself, shook his head to clear it of wayward thoughts, and fed the curry to Micah. Chewing thoughtfully, Micah regarded the Styrofoam container and then Joe.

 

"Well?" Joe prompted, chewing off a rather large bite of naan.

 

"It's...not the worst thing I ever put in my mouth," Micah relented.

 

Joe started to crack up and had to swallow all the food in his mouth before he choked on it. It scraped him raw all the way down, making his eyes water. "Fuck, Micah, you're killing me!" He gasped, chuckling again.

 

The corners of Micah's lips turned up and his eyes alit, telling Joe that Micah had carefully chosen his words rather than happening upon an unfortunate turn of phrase. It left him wondering if there was anything Micah did that wasn't calculated.

 

Grinning, Joe tugged Micah closer to him, licking the curry from his lips. There was only one way to find out.

 


End file.
